The Flat
by Random Flyer
Summary: AU. The flat at 221B was haunted, or so the landlady said. John Watson rented it anyway. After all, his own demons were far worse than anything the ghost of 221B Baker St could throw at him. Working on a slightly different narrative style so please R&R.
1. The Flat

**I do not own Sherlock.**

 **The Flat**

 **By Random Flyer**

 **Chapter 1: The Flat**

"Here we are," the landlady said, opening the door to 221B, flat for rent on Baker Street. "It's a little dusty, I grant you, but it's more than enough room for a single person, or two if you should decide you'd like a roommate."

John Watson stepped into the apartment, glancing around with appreciation at the furnishings already present. He didn't have any furniture himself and having a pre-furnished flat would be much more comfortable than sitting on the floor. "No," he said, as he eyed the filled book cases. The previous tenant had left quite a bit behind. "No, it'll just be me, I'm afraid."

John limped into the kitchen, peering around the old wooden table and into the cupboards and shelves. It was a little dusty, like the rest of the apartment, and obviously hadn't been occupied for months but beyond that it was clean. The same could be said for the bed room, dusty, but otherwise clean and with a large, and apparently new, queen sized bed wrapped in a plastic cover for storage. John almost wanted to fall onto it right there and then after the past several months sleeping on the narrow, old bed he had at the invalid home.

"Are you sure about the price?" John asked, moving back out into the living room. The landlady stepped behind him, tutting at the dust and herself for letting it get so bad. He looked around the room again and glanced out the window where London buzzed away at another weekday. The place seemed too good to be true, not something he'd ever expect to be able to afford on an army pension. "It just seems a little low considering the location."

"Oh I'm quite sure, Dr. Watson," she smiled up at him with a motherly expression John hadn't experienced in the ten years he'd been in the army. "You seem like such a nice young man, and you'll be a good neighbor as well. I live down stairs and have just as much desire for a good neighbor as a tenant. Don't worry about the rent. As long as you're honest and don't try to cheat me, I'm sure we can work it out."

John hitched a half smile on his face, torn between believing there was something wrong with the place and accepting that the older woman was just as desperate for company as he was. Still, even if it was a bit of both, as long as it got him out of that depressing little room he'd been trapped in since his discharge, he'd be happy. "Well, I guess I'll take it then. I'll bring my things over this afternoon."

"Oh splendid!" the landlady clapped her hands knocking some dust out of the cloth she'd used to wipe down furniture. "I'll just air it out when you leave and dust things a little. We can sign the lease when you get back, but here's the key, I have a spare if you forget it here at any time." She handed over a silver house key on a plain metal ring labeled "B" with a paper tab. Then, she turned back toward the stairs. "Take your time."

John nodded, looking back over the space. Even with the furniture and some clutter already in place, he knew his paltry number of possessions would never fill even a quarter of the space remaining and he didn't have the income or the inclination to buy anything more to fill the rest. It was alright, though. The flat was fine as it stood.

It took a moment for John to realize the landlady hadn't left yet. He turned and found her hovering in the door at the landing for the stairs, a deep, worried frown on her face.

"Is everything alright?" John asked, turning fully to woman. "You haven't changed your mind, have you?" He couldn't afford anything more expensive. If she decided to raise the price after all, he'd be back at square one.

The older woman clenched the dust rag in thin hands before shaking her head. "There is one thing you should know before deciding."

Frowning but ready to hear about the apparently large defect that caused the flat to be marked so low, John nodded his head. "Aright, what is it. Is it the plumbing?"

"Not the plumbing," she said with a brief smile and a short shake of her graying head. "No, I've had everything in this place looked over and checked. All the appliances and utilities work fine. It's just…well, my other boarders never stayed very long. They all said this place was…" she struggled, motioning with her hands as if she could usher the words out. "Well, they said it was haunted."

It took John a moment to fully grasp what the landlady had said. "Haunted?" he repeated, glancing around the room. True, the Victorian styling of the room made it believable that some old specter occasionally dropped by to visit old haunts, but John did not believe in ghosts.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," she nodded, a grimace passing over her face. "I promise there's nothing wrong with anything here, as I said, I've had it all checked and re-checked. There just seems to be something that frightens all my tenants away, just from this particular flat. I was even able to let out the basement flat for longer than I have this one." She shook her head, crossing one arm over her middle and the other coming up to her face as she looked around the room. "I really don't know what to do with it, but if you've changed your mind, that's alright. I'll understand, dear."

John shook his head, a real smile break out of the shell it'd been hiding in since leaving Afghanistan. "No, no! I'll take it." Now that he knew what was wrong, why the rent was so low he felt even better about the choice.

"Good," she smiled with relief, a weight almost leaving her shoulders and tension dropping from her that John hadn't even realized was present. "I'll just go down and get my cleaning supplies, touch up the place, but just this once you know."

"Thank you, Mrs. Turner," John smiled, following her out to the landing. "I'll only be a moment then get out of your way."

Mrs. Turner nodded, patting him on the arm. "You're going to be a fine tenant. I'm so glad you're not afraid of ghosts, or being haunted, everyone else is apparently." She turned and moved down the staircase at a slow pace, probably due to a bad knee, John's keen medical eye informed him.

John looked back at the flat he'd just rented. He thought about what the landlady revealed, some mysterious haunting that apparently drove out all boarders. Then, he thought about the single room he had at the invalid home, only slightly more welcoming than a prison cell, and he thought about the veterans that had killed themselves in that same building, two in the past three months. John was not the best at expressing himself to other people, his therapist could attest to that, but he was well aware of the road he was going down. If he didn't change something soon it might just be himself that the coroner wheel out the door of that dreary, depressing halfway house.

"No, Mrs. Turner," John said to the air around him. "I just think my demons are worse than whatever this place can throw at me."

TBC...

A/N: This story is completed but going through editing. Updates should be weekly baring unforeseen circumstances. Please read and review. Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.


	2. The Disturbances

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who favorited, followed, and reviewed so far. Please read and review.**

 **I do not own Sherlock**

 **Chapter 2: The Disturbances**

It took over a week before John started to understand what Mrs. Turner said during his initial visit. There was something…off about 221B, though nothing, in fact, seemed to be wrong. It was just a feeling, a vibration in the bones, that something about this particular space did not fit right, was thin and wearing and let something through that didn't belong in the world.

Whatever it was, it was not enough to make John consider moving. Even partially empty, since he was right about his few possessions not taking up any room in the relatively large flat, John felt more at home there than he had anywhere since coming back to England. Mrs. Turner was wonderful. She brought him food, dinner, baked goods, and tea, and talked with him when the nights drew out for both of them. She even sent odd jobs his way, knowing he still had yet to find any ad locum work.

All in all, John was initially content with the situation and the change in setting did him a world of good. However, as the weeks wore on and he still couldn't find steady work in any kind of medical situation, as his limp never got any better and he remained mostly alone and bored and useless, the depression began to creep in again. He could feel it settling in like an unwanted house guest.

When things started going missing John was sure it was just his sinking frame of mind getting to him. First, it was his favorite RAMC mug. He made tea, set down the mug, turned his back, and then it vanished. He searched everywhere he could possibly have set it. The mug was simply gone. John found it the next day sitting on the table with only the dregs of cold tea remaining.

"Get a grip on yourself, Watson," John said, shaking his head as he dumped out the rest of the tea and cleaned out the cup. He stopped, frowning as he got a whiff of some unknown scent. It was a burning, acidic smell. John set the cup down, clean and dripping on the counter. The smell was too chemical in nature to be gas, but he checked the stove anyway. The gas was off. He walked slowly around the table, sniffing the air. He wasn't imagining it. There was definitely a smell.

John searched. The smell grew worse and for a moment, he thought the wiring in the walls had caught fire. Then, the smell faded and in a moment it was gone. Shaking his head, John made a mental note to mention it to Mrs. Turner. She had said all the appliances and utilities had been checked, but the building was old and it never hurt to check again.

His latest medical journal was the next thing John noticed disappear days later. It was one of the few luxuries he indulged in, and one of his only shots at keeping up his medical knowledge without actively working. The thick magazine of in-depth medical texts went missing from his armchair. He searched high and low to no avail. Then, he found it hours later on the couch sitting in plain sight.

In the search, John found a stack of scientific journals under the bookcase, something he had missed when he first moved into the flat. He pulled the stack out in a scatter of dust. Many of them focused on crime and forensics, while the rest stretched over a wide number of scientific topics. The journals were addressed to a Mr. S. Holmes. There was one unpublished article, stuffed between the editions of scholarly publications. It was printed out on loose leaf paper and stapled together with notations, markings, and corrections scribbled all across it, a draft then.

John looked over the cover page, curious about the previous tenants to live in the flat. His face scrunched in disbelief as he saw the title of the study. Who would go to the effort of studying tobacco ash? He glanced at the abstract. The title of the paper did not lie, 243 different kinds of tobacco ash. Looking back to the cover page, John sought out the name of the author. He snorted. The name was ridiculous enough to sound like someone who would study tobacco ash, one Sherlock Holmes.

A quick search on the internet rendered a website, the Science of Deduction. It was dry and a little unbelievable, but also extraordinary and brilliant, if it was true. However, the search also brought up a news article and an obituary. John felt a sudden, inexplicable sense of loss that he hadn't managed to get shot and sent home a few months earlier. Perhaps if he had he would have been able to meet the man who wrote lengthy papers on tobacco ash and claimed he could identify an airline pilot by his left thumb. As it was, though, Sherlock Holmes was long dead and gone, suffering an overdose of cocaine almost a year before John returned to England.

XXXXX

It wasn't until a week later that John thought it might be something more than just his own forgetfulness or imagination that caused the things to disappear then reappear or the smells of acrid chemicals and rot. He was asleep in his bedroom, though not peacefully. The nightmares hadn't begun yet and they didn't get the chance. Before John could tumble into the hot desert sands of southern Afghanistan, the sound of violin playing woke him.

John blinked awake. He scrubbed his face, and pressed his fingers into his eyes then summoned the courage to glance at the clock propped up by the side of his bed. Two thirty in the morning, if morning could be used to describe the deepest part of the night. He lay back down, flopping onto his back and willing the nighttime player to be quiet and let him sleep.

The music continued, alternating between sweet melodious tones and shrill screeches that clawed the air. John gave up the idea of falling back asleep in short order. He pushed himself out of bed, then stumbled from the room. He wasn't quite sure what he would do after the fact, but was determined to locate which neighbor thought it an appropriate time to study the effects of noise in the dead of night.

John let his feet guide him to the sound. He eyes were too tired to stay open but he didn't need them, just his ears. There weren't many neighbors, thanks to the ghost stories that had circulated about the flat. The stigma had attached itself to the whole building. Though, it seemed only 221B had any reports made about it. It would be easy figuring out which wall the sound was coming from…except it wasn't coming from another flat.

John stopped in the middle of the living room and frowned into the darkness. The sound was coming from the same room. If he closed his eyes he could imagine the violinist standing right in front of him. The TV was off. He shuffled his way to the radio, thinking it might be some late-night program, but the radio was off. The computer was off, too. Just to be sure, he stuck his head out the window, no one on the street, and pressed his ear against the walls, no sound resonating through the drywall except that coming from his own place.

"It doesn't make sense," John said, turning around in the room his heart rate picking up as he failed to find a logical explanation. The sound was clear and strong. It didn't seem to be a recording, but there was no one else in the room to make it. He'd thought he had heard sounds in the flat before, but they'd all been easily explained away. "It can't really be a ghost, can it?" he said to the empty apartment.

Even as John spoke the music began to fade. It was almost as though the sound was being carried away by the wind, or like a car passing by with its radio on, fading into the distance. He froze and strained to hear it, trying to force the memory of what it sounded liked to remain. He was determined not to doubt himself later.

"Hello? Are you there?" At the sound of John's question, during a lull in the barely audible song, the music screeched to stop. "Hello?" John asked again, certain the last screech hadn't been a part of the song, but only silence greeted him.

TBC…


	3. The Case

**A/N: I got impatient so here's the next chapter. Thanks so much for everyone following this story and especially for the reviews I've gotten! You guys are awesome. If you have any suggestions or critiques I'd love to hear them. Please R &R.**

 **I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Chapter 3: The Case**

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock bellowed from his position frozen in the middle of the sitting room. Silence. "MRS. HUDSON!"

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson appeared on the stairs, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.

"Have you been cleaning my rooms again?" Sherlock didn't bother looking at her, focusing instead on the room around him. There was something wrong. He couldn't tell what it was but it was something. He could feel it vibrating in his bones even if his intellect couldn't pinpoint it and it was maddening.

"No dear," Mrs. Hudson said, straightening one pillow on the red easy chair. "Though they certainly could use it."

Sherlock didn't bother replying to such an inane comment. He closed his eyes bringing his hands to his temples as he pictured the way the flat looked when he left. There was no discernible difference except the sense that _something_ was out of place. Distantly, he registered Mrs. Hudson leaving then immediately discarded it. The smell of tea pervaded his senses, hot and fresh. Opening his eyes, Sherlock turned to tell Mrs. Hudson to get out but she wasn't there nor was her standard tea set.

Instead, a single mug sat on the table nestled between the microscope and a Petri dish. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, zeroing in on the unfamiliar mug. He descended on the new object observations snapping over everything from the steam to the letters RAMC and the accompanying seal emblazoned on the side. The tea was hot, freshly made. Sherlock sniffed it, milk no sugar. There were faint impressions on the side from where someone had taken a sip or two. The RAMC and seal standing for Royal Army Medical Corp, the owner was likely connected to the army. The data on the owner, however, gave nothing as to how the mug got there in the first place.

Sherlock checked the hall and the stairs. No, the last person to come into the apartment had been Mrs. Hudson and she hadn't brought it. Scooping up the mug, Sherlock repositioned it before his seat at the table and let lose a battery of tests further examining the cup. He took temperatures, measurements, samples, all with increasing glee. There was a puzzle here, he knew it. Something different, new, something he had never seen before and it hadn't come a moment too soon. Lestrade hadn't given him a case in weeks and clients were few and far between. Sherlock was ready to throw himself off a building if only to relive the tedium.

Sherlock finished filling a specimen jar with most of the remaining tea. It appeared to be normal, but one could never assume things. He made up a slide for his microscope before turning back to the mug and froze. The cup was gone, vanished just as mysteriously as it had appeared. Searching did no good. He knew he'd placed the cup down on the table and there was no obvious explanation for how it moved. Frustration at losing his one piece of evidence aside, the disappearance only made the puzzle all the more delicious.

With no other course to take, Sherlock turned back to his microscope. He still had the tea, that had to account for something, and when he was done with that he would research the RAMC, just to be sure.

XXXXX

Days passed and the mug case had gone nowhere. Waiting, observing, researching did nothing but increase Sherlock's frustration. The tea was just tea, nothing extraordinary about it except for the tea to milk ratio. Mrs. Hudson didn't know anything about the whole affair, as per usual. Sherlock hit a dead end. Yet still the illusive feeling remained, the sense that something was off. There was something more to this case. He just had not seen it yet.

Sherlock paced the room, too agitated to risk touching his violin for fear he would smash the instrument to pieces. Instead, he swept up a mug from the table, a far better object to vent his frustrations on since the thing which started this torture was also a mug. He swung around to hurl the cup when he froze. There, leaning against the faded armchair, was a cane, one that hadn't been there when Sherlock passed by the chair mere seconds ago.

Setting down the cup, Sherlock moved slowly toward the cane. It was propped up against the chair, handle hooked over the arm as if set there by someone sitting down. It was relatively new. Hospital issue, right handed, only six month's wear on the rubber tip, he observed as he scooped up the object. If it belonged to the same person as the RAMC mug, it could point toward an injured soldier. He needed more data to confirm. Sherlock set the cane down by the chair precisely as he found it and spun to get his magnifying glass. When he turned back the cane was gone.

Sherlock stared in disbelief at the empty spot by the chair before spitting out a vicious stream of insults to the empty room. He searched the flat over with no success. No one had entered the flat and Sherlock had not touched the cane after setting it down by the chair. The cane's disappearance was as good as a locked-room murder. It defied explanation.

With no cane, no mug, no tangible evidence on which to focus his efforts except for an undefinable and disturbing sensation deep in his bones, Sherlock turned to his next best recourse: research. He ran the symptoms and events he experienced through scientific and academic search platforms as well as a general internet search. The results were less than helpful. Scientific resources pointed toward a psychological explanation. Hallucinations, delusions, and mental illness, while not completely out of the realm of possibility, were unlikely. Sherlock had no doubts concerning his current state of mind. And drugs? Sherlock had been clean for well over a year. Besides, Mycroft would be on Sherlock the moment he thought Sherlock was moving back down that road.

The general search results were less helpful. A few online Q&A sites suggested an untrustworthy or inconsiderate roommate, which Sherlock did not have and he doubted Mrs. Hudson was the cause of his current dilemma. The majority of the rest focused on the paranormal, more specifically: ghosts.

Sherlock Holmes did not believe in ghosts. Of course he didn't. They were a ridiculous fancy of the sentimental and the macabre. While current evidence might lead some to believe the disturbances were the result of a ghost, that of some specter haunting the rooms from by-gone years, following the same routine from life. Sherlock was convinced there must be another explanation. He simply needed more data.

There was no denying the phenomenon occurring in Sherlock's flat defied ordinary scientific explanation. Random and unfamiliar objects appeared for a short time and vanished. The mug and the cane were two prime examples. Sherlock's own possessions disappeared then reappeared in alternate locations, though it was difficult to determine how much of that was due to Mrs. Hudson's futile attempts to clean and organize the chaos in Sherlock's flat. Sounds came from thin air with no discernable origin, and there was a reoccurring sense that something was simply off about the place.

The patterns exhibited by the disturbances mirrored what would be a typical daily routine. Through the night, any activity was generally in the bedroom, with occasional appearances in the kitchen and toilet. Then, during the day, the vast majority of discrepancies happened in the kitchen and living room.

The nightly disturbances in the bedroom eventually stopped, but Sherlock managed to track down their new location, the third floor bedroom upstairs. The new location did not change his overall observations since it was still a bedroom, but prompted several intriguing questions. What caused the change? Could Sherlock influence these disturbances? And if so to what extent?

The flat did not have this issue when Sherlock first moved into 221B nearly a year ago, therefore the disturbances were increasing with time. Good. It meant Sherlock would have more opportunities to gather data. He just needed to ensure Mycroft did not find out and get involved, as well as hope that whatever triggered disturbances did not also make them inexplicably stop.

It was another few days before Sherlock discovered the likely identity of the mug and cane's owner as well as the person probably causing the subtle disturbances around the flat. John H. Watson. Sherlock found medical journals addressed to that name on the red armchair. The journals were new, the most recent editions of each publication. Sherlock checked. None of the journals arrived in Sherlock's mail, despite being addressed to 221B and all of them listed John Watson as the intended recipient, someone whom had never lived at the address. That must be the name of the unseen specter lurking through the flat.

Finding the journals provided a wealth of data on the mysterious John Watson, particularly since the good doctor made notes on several articles in each publication. The slant and smudging of the handwriting showed that Watson was left handed. The majority of articles that had notes written over them were pieces for surgeons, focused on organ transplants, trauma surgery, and new surgical techniques. The written comments were informed, made by someone who clearly knew the field in an intimate manner. Watson's handwriting, if it was his handwriting, showed signs of a tremor. The most likely explanation was an injury during Watson's time in service since no practicing surgeon could suffer from such a condition. It all fit nicely with the cane Sherlock found earlier as well as the RAMC mug and pointed to John Watson being RAMC doctor medically discharged.

The journals stayed in the flat almost a full three hours before they disappeared, the record as far as the disturbances went. Sherlock spent as much time with the physical evidence as possible. He would not get a second chance at it, after all. He took samples of the paper, photos of the articles, found the corresponding journals with the same date and compared them.

Then, when Sherlock had turned his head for the briefest moment, the journals disappeared. He focused on his research after that. Finding John H. Watson was simple. Watson was indeed listed as a member of the RAMC and a Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Sherlock also confirmed his suspicion that Watson was a surgeon. However, when Sherlock looked up the captain's current status he found that Capt. Watson was listed as missing in action, had been for the last eight months. There was paperwork underway to declare Watson deceased, however it was held up for some minor administrative difficulties. Soon, John Watson would be considered legally dead.

Frowning, Sherlock broadened his search to include any family members. John Watson's only living relative was a sister, Harriet Watson. The personal relationship between the two siblings aside, it seemed Harriet had taken her brother's missing in action status hard. She had a string of drunken and disorderly charges following the disappearance of her brother. Then, nearly four months ago, she crashed her car into a building. According to the police report, no one was hurt and Harriet herself had only minor contusions but the court ordered her to rehab. All follow up reports showed she was still sober nearly two months after getting out, but Sherlock doubted it would last. Contacting her would be worse than useless.

Though illuminating, none of the information gave any explanation as to why John Watson's things kept appearing around Sherlock's flat. There was an explanation, of course there was. It just was something extraordinary. It was the most extraordinary puzzle he had come across to date. Sherlock could hardly contain his excitement for the next disturbance.

A week passed. Sherlock knew minor disturbances occurred over that time thanks to the sensation of wrongness that accompanied each event, but had been unsuccessful in discovering precisely what was altered. Now, Sherlock vented his frustration by playing his violin, loudly, and in the dead of night. If he wasn't going to be able to sleep, no one was.

A series of thumps came from the ground floor. Mrs. Hudson would be up soon, berating Sherlock for waking both her and the neighbors. Good. It just proved his efforts were working. Maybe she would make him a cup of tea just to stop his playing.

Sherlock was so consumed by the music and the prospect of tea he nearly missed it. The off-feeling crept up so gradually it was only when a foreign voice echoed through the room that he recognized the signs.

"Hello? Are you there?" the voice said. It was in the room yet muted like a radio under a pillow. The voice was male, middle class, and standing somewhere in the center of the room, by Sherlock's own chair, even though the room was empty besides Sherlock himself.

Sherlock screeched to a halt. "Hello?" he called and thought he heard the faintest 'hello' in reply but it was gone before he could be certain. "HELLO? JOHN WATSON?" he said, whirling around, eyes roving over the area where the voice had come from, but there was no response, just silence. No amount of questioning or calling brought the disembodied voice back.

"It's much too late to be kicking up such a fuss," Mrs. Hudson said in exasperation. "Really, Sherlock, who are you calling for?"

Sherlock swept one last wide-eyed gaze over the room before looking back to Mrs. Hudson. "Nothing, just…something for a case."

 **TBC…**


	4. The Message

**A/N: Here's the next chapter. Hopefully it'll make it clear what exactly is happening at 221B. Thanks again to everyone who's reviewed, followed and favorited this story.**

 **I do not own Sherlock**

 **Chapter 4: The Message**

Sherlock swept into 221B, the just-solved murder already forgotten as his eyes scanned the room for any inconsistencies or disturbances. According to his observations the frequency of incidences were increasing almost exponentially. Something should be happening any time now. What exactly that something would be, Sherlock could not reliably say. The specific incidents seemed to be random. One might be a foreign smell pervading the rooms, or the sound of some unseen person typing away at a computer or listening to daytime television. The most intriguing possibility, though, was the prospect for something tangible appearing, some object with yet more clues to the life of John Watson and how his possessions managed to find their way into Sherlock's flat.

There was nothing wrong with the living room and yet the feeling that something was off remained. It was the same sense that preceded and accompanied every event. Sherlock swung around to the kitchen. There, on the table, sat a stack of mail that had not been present a moment ago. It was a stack of sympathy cards, and not a very large one. Sherlock rifled through the pitiful collection of cheap, generic condolences for the loss of Harry Watson. Only two of the cards were sincere. He read through and examined the cards again, taking pictures of both cards and their envelopes. There was no telling when the cards would disappear so time was of the essence. He needed to draw as much data from them as possible and then keep them under observation in hopes that he would observe firsthand how the objects left the flat.

The death was recent, unexpected if not unsurprising, and the funeral, likely small, happened only a couple of days ago. The cards also supported the previous deduction that John Watson had not been close to his sister. The cards were worn from handling. The two sincere cards, one from Clara and the second from a James Sholto, showed more wear than the others and possibly implied some amount of regret surrounding the death, probably the estranged relationship, and possibly John's situation in general. Sherlock never fully understood people and their emotional reactions, but from his observations those seemed to be the likely explanations.

Moving the cards to the coffee table, Sherlock pulled up a search on recent obituaries. Harriet Watson was not listed among them. He leaned back, gaze fixed on the cards as he pondered the explanation for a stack of sympathy cards addressed to a man officially listed as missing in action, presumed dead, concerning the death of a woman who by all evidence was currently alive and well.

As Sherlock considered all sides of the inconsistencies between the facts of the case, he watched the stack of cards with an unblinking focus. Mrs. Hudson came in, but Sherlock ignored her. She disappeared for a few minutes then reappeared with a tray of tea, said something probably unimportant and left. Still, Sherlock stared at the cards. Nearly three minutes after Mrs. Hudson left, the cards disappeared. Literally. They vanished with an unseen waved of wrongness. If Sherlock had blinked he might have missed it. All traditional forms of explanation failed to explain it, so he was going to have to delve into the less conventional. Pulling his gaze away from the now empty spot on the coffee table, Sherlock once again turned to his computer and began a new search on theoretical physics.

XXXXX

Sherlock did not consider himself a sentimental man, a man prone to attachments and emotion. The very consideration of sentiment made his mouth twist in disdain, but he would be hard pressed to deny he had become something of attached to the phantom presence of John Watson at 221B. The slow trickle of clues and hints of information was infuriating, even with the increased pace of the last several weeks. However, the continuing existence of this puzzle helped ease the painful stretches of boredom between cases when the world seemed to claw at his brain for lack of stimulation.

Sherlock loathed to admit it, but having the intrusion of John Watson's existence into his life also made his existence a little less lonely.

This was why Sherlock found himself frowning at the latest round of deductions he made concerning his pseudo flat mate. Since the appearance of the sympathy cards there had been an increase in times he smelled gun oil permeating the apartment. Sometimes the smell was strong, times when it was obvious John Watson was cleaning his gun. Other times it was more subtle, times when Watson brought out the firearm and handled it for hours at a time. Then, there was the constant presence hanging around the place, a clinging depression that appeared every so often. Watson still hadn't found a steady job and had little to no social life.

Sherlock researched the statics for veteran suicides and found them disturbingly high, particularly when considering the veteran he was slowly growing to know. The problem was there was little Sherlock could do. Besides the few times he had directly heard Watson moving around the flat, the few times he'd heard the ghost of a voice or the faint echo of daytime TV, there was almost no direct contact, no way to communicate. Sherlock tried sending written communication, but it was difficult if not impossible to determine when or where the next portal, for lack of a better word, would open.

Still, Sherlock left out notes in the areas where the phenomena happened the most often. Eventually one of them would fall through, and then it would just be up to John to find the note, read it, and realize what it meant. It was only a matter of time. The danger lay in the fact that though Sherlock had more than enough time to wait for a message to slip through, John Watson might very well not be so lucky.

XXXXX

"Sherlock?" Lestrade stepped into the flat, looking over the living room before finding Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table-turned lab. The dark head made no movement to acknowledge the detective inspector's arrival.

"Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson says you haven't left the flat in a month." Lestrade picked his way over to the table. The place was even more cluttered than usual, stacks of papers and books with miscellaneous items piled around and over everything there was a layer of hand written notes. Leaning down to look at them, Lestrade frowned. It was the same message over and over again on different pieces of paper. "John Watson, are you there? Respond."

"Don't exaggerate," Sherlock scoffed, "Three weeks and four days. Besides, this is far more interesting than going outside, far too interesting to miss."

Lestrade looked over to what Sherlock found so 'interesting' that he had turned down three separate cases, one of which was a locked-room murder. "You're just reading the daily paper!"

Sherlock ripped the paper off of the desk and jumped out of his chair slapping it and another paper down in front of Lestrade. "How are you observational skills today, detective inspector?"

Frowning, Lestrade looked down at the paper. "It's just two newspapers, today's and yesterday's." He spread his hands apart in a silent question.

"As usual, you look but you don't see." Sherlock pointed down to the dates on each paper. "They're both today's paper."

Lestrade shook his head, eyes flicking from one date to the next. "No they're not. The headlines are different but they're the same news carrier. One of them's a fake, has to be."

Sherlock nodded in a sideways waggle. "Almost logical, as far as snap judgments go, but wrong. They are both very authentic." Sherlock picked up the newspapers, squinting at one then the other as he resumed his seat.

"This one can't be real," Lestrade said, following Sherlock and pointing to one of the papers. "That's not the prime minister."

Sherlock batted away the hand as he picked up his magnifying glass and began his examination again. "Despite what the headlines read, both papers are authentic editions of today's newspaper. You don't have all of the data."

Lestrade looked around the flat again, measuring the stacks of books with his gaze. He picked up one and read the title to himself. "Explorations into Advanced Quantum Physics…" Then louder and in exasperation, "That's it." Lestrade dropped the book back on the table, scattering paper messages in the gust of air.

"Careful!" Sherlock cried, hurrying to gather up the messages and spread them out evenly. "There's no way to tell where the phenomena will occur next. For the experiment to work, I need maximum coverage."

"You've been cooped up in here too long." Lestrade said, grabbing Sherlock under the elbow and hauling him to his feet, "You're getting some fresh air."

Sherlock twisted, trying to get out of Lestrade's grip on his arm, but the older man had been a policeman for a long time and had more than enough experience dealing with uncooperative people. He hauled Sherlock to the door, thrusting the Belstaf coat into Sherlock's arms then spun him out to the hall. He slammed the door behind him and sent the papers closest to the door sailing away in the gust of air. Neither he nor Sherlock saw one of the messages vanish that same moment they left the flat.

 **TBC…**

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	5. The Flat Mate

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 **I don not own Sherlock.**

 **Chapter 5: The Flat Mate**

John really didn't know how to explain the message and he really didn't trust anyone enough to ask their opinion on it, either. With his luck he would be locked away in some institution if he tried to tell anyone. It was just too unbelievable. Still, he couldn't deny the note that appeared out of thin air in the middle of his living room, the note addressed specifically to him and asking for a response. John stared at the paper in his hand for several minutes. The disturbances, the random objects disappearing and appearing around the flat, the noises, everything from the violin to human voices, that was all one thing, but now the mysterious ghost as Mrs. Turner referred to it, was trying to contact him.

John swallowed against an unexpectedly dry mouth before moving to make tea. He went through the motions never once letting go of the paper, afraid that if he let it go for a moment the paper would vanish the same way it had appeared. John wasn't willing to let this go, literally or figuratively. Since coming back from Afghanistan his life had been a series of events spiraling out of his control and down into a depression he hadn't really thought was possible.

Harry's sudden and unexpected death only made it worse. True, John and his sister never got along, but she was the only person he had left in the world and now she was gone. John didn't like to admit it to himself and he would never say it to his therapist, but he was approaching the point where a quick end to the suffering looked much better than waiting through it only to come out alone and useless on the other side.

In truth, the only thing that kept him going besides the knowledge of how his sister would react was the prospect of this puzzle surrounding his flat, currently manifesting itself in his hand as a paper note from an unknown person. If nothing else would tie him to the world, he would rely on curiosity.

John frowned down at the paper. It had to be from Sherlock Holmes, of course it was from Sherlock. John still didn't know how to take the person half sharing 221B with him. According to all the research he'd conducted, Sherlock Holmes had been dead for almost a year. Yet, the remnants he'd found around the flat, the violin playing at all hours, the acidic smells of chemicals probably associated with the chemistry set that appeared briefly on the kitchen table, and all the other little things, proved there was something of the man living here still, not a ghost but something else.

This note was the latest evidence of it. Directed specifically to John, asking for a response, it was all very non-ghostlike. The only explanation that John could think of was something straight out of a science fiction novel. He hadn't told his therapist about it for that exact reason. She wouldn't believe him, would probably attribute it to some delusion born from the loneliness, boredom, and lack of purpose. He knew it wasn't a delusion. You didn't receive notes from delusions. At least, he didn't think so.

John stared at the note while he waited for his water to boil, thinking. Nothing happened to him anymore, not really. These disturbances were the only thing that had added anything to his life besides the dull, numbing monotony that filled everything since leaving the hospital. These occurrences, this Sherlock Holmes gave him something to focus on outside of his growing uselessness. If he was honest with himself, Sherlock Holmes had done more for him than his therapist ever had and perhaps could.

Picking up a pen, John put the note down on a flat surface. After thinking a moment, he wrote out, "Is this Sherlock Holmes?" He paused trying to think of anything else to write. There were too many questions he had, he couldn't write them all down. They would fill up the paper and then some. Asking if Sherlock was dead seemed impolite, but did social decorum really matter in a situation like this? John thought it would if the person in the flat really did turn out to be a ghost with a touchy sensitivity toward its own demise.

In the end, John simply wrote down one question instead of the hundreds that begged to be asked. "How is this possible?" Then, he signed his name and stood up from the table. The strange feeling, one of something being off in the world, like an inexplicable draft breezing through an invisible door and leaving the world just a little unbalanced, still remained in the room. That same feeling preceded every strange event, every sourceless sound, each unaccounted for item.

John took the chance. Kettle whistling on the stove, he strode over to the spot where the paper had appeared and placed it back, exactly as it was. Stepping back several paces, ignoring the shrill call of his boiling water, John watched the note. It didn't seem like anything was happening at first, but the world slowly righted itself. The invisible door swung shut and by the time it was closed the feeling and the note were gone.

Shaking his head in amazement, John turned back to the kettle to finish making tea. At the very least, no matter how dull and useless the rest of his life became, he would stay around a little longer to see if he got a reply.

XXXXX

Sherlock threw open the door to his flat, the cloud of notes scattering at the action mollifying him only a little. The first time he had tried to lay out notes for John Watson Mrs. Hudson found and cleaned them all up stacking them neatly on the table where they were next to useless. Sherlock had thrown a fit and made it quite clear that under no circumstances was she to touch the messages again. He'd latter made sure to play Mrs. Hudson's favorite songs loud enough on the violin to be heard downstairs by way of an apology for his yelling. So seeing the notes still in place reassured him that the warning to his landlady had been taken to heart.

It still didn't completely disperse the annoyance Sherlock felt toward Lestrade for dragging him away, probably at Mycroft's prompting. The occurrences were becoming increasingly frequent, sometimes several in a day. If he was going to be able to study them firsthand he had to be _here_ , not being dragged around by the Detective Inspector from one mind-numbingly simplistic crime scene to the next in the hopes that Sherlock would take an interest in one.

Unable to take it anymore, Sherlock threatened to make a scene so monumental as to put a Shakespearian final act to shame and Lestrade had finally let him go. Glaring down at the dozens of notes littered about the room Sherlock kicked the nearest one with little satisfaction. While putting out so many notes increased the likelihood of one of them being taken, it also made it more difficult to observe when that happened and if it had come back. The only way to know for certain, particularly with the breeze from the door shifting their positions each time it opened would be to gather them all up, count them, then place them all out again.

Taking a brief moment to remove his coat, that is precisely what Sherlock did. He had 175 notes spread across the kitchen and the living room. He did not yet place notes in either bedroom, due to the tendency of objects to appear and disappear from the first two locations with more frequency. Sherlock could hear sounds and sense a presence often enough in the bedrooms, particularly in the upstairs bedroom, but the focal point for the phenomena and consequently where it was strongest seemed to be the kitchen and living room. He placed markers in the locations where he'd found objects sitting that didn't belonged there, such as the cane, the RAMC mug, the sympathy cards, and other objects that came through. At each place he left a note. Then, to make sure he had all the possibilities covered, he left additional notes in places where there hadn't been any evidence of displacement. If leaving out the notes in those locations proved fruitless, he would just expand his area of coverage and increase his chances.

Sherlock froze, half way through picking up and counting the messages. There, lying four papers away from his foot and in a spot where there hadn't been any observed activity yet, sat one of the messages with additional writing on it. Sherlock dropped the stack he was currently holding and lunged for the paper. There was no odd feeling to the room, or indication that anything extraordinary was taking place like a portal to an alternate reality opening, so the paper must have vanished and reappeared while Sherlock was out. Once again, he cursed Lestrade for the man's poor timing as he hurried to his microscope to examine the paper and writing.

"'Is this Sherlock Holmes?'" Sherlock read out loud, voice sliding through the delighted smile curling his mouth. The smile got even larger when he saw John's name signed at the bottom. John must have noted Sherlock's name on some of the objects that had travelled back and forth over the course of the last several months. Most notably had been the draft of Sherlock's paper on tobacco ash that John had the cheek to correct and then grade with a red pen. On his own side of the rift, John must have come to his own conclusion that the person sharing 221B was Sherlock.

Sherlock briefly wondered where his counterpart was in that other world. Clearly, he did not live at 221B. There had been no indications of a third presence in the flat, just Sherlock himself in this world and John from the other world. This brought up the question of where the other Sherlock had decided to reside, if indeed he was anywhere at all. When dealing with alternate realities and parallel dimensions, the possibilities really were almost endless. The John Watson in Sherlock's own world had gone missing in Afghanistan and was presumed KIA. Who was to say the Sherlock in John's world had not befallen some ill fate, was even still alive?

The handwriting matched the pervious examples Sherlock had found of John's left-handed doctor's scrawl. The ink was ordinary black pen, nothing remarkable. The second question demonstrated John was at least aware of something extraordinary happening. The change in slant between the first question and the second indicated a long pause between the two. Mostly likely a result of John trying to decide which of his many question to put to paper.

Shooting out of his chair, Sherlock gathered up the rest of his notes and proceeded to write a reply. The excitement seemed to bubble up and over on to the page, his hand barely able to keep up with the questions he wanted to ask. He'd have to print out one of the more useful articles he'd found on quantum physics and dimensional theory and attach it to the notes. There was no way to tell how much familiarity John had with the subject, considering his medical background probably very little.

It didn't matter. John's understanding of how or why something was happening had little bearing on the outcome. What mattered was John knew something was happening and was observant enough to respond to it, much to Sherlock's glee. If it had been someone else, one of the many common idiots wandering the streets in a daze for most of their life, Sherlock might never have had a chance to learn much more about this alternate world. But John Watson was apparently not an idiot, at least not a normal idiot. They had made contact that was the important thing. Now, the real experiments could begin.

 **TBC..**

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	6. Correspondence

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 **I do not own Sherlock.**

 **Chapter 6: Correspondence**

John hobbled down the stairs to answer the door. He paid the delivery boy managing only a small wince at the price of the takeaway dinner before turning and heading back upstairs. He really didn't have to money to be ordering takeaway. His finances were strained enough without steady work and no flat mate to share the rent. Work was scarce for someone like him thanks to his…difficulties, and he was reluctant to advertise for a flat share because of the strange occurrences frequently happening in 221B. He doubted he could find someone willing to put up with the bodiless violin playing at all hours of the night much less everything else.

Personally, John rather liked the music, so long as Sherlock wasn't torturing any cats in what John had decided were his moods of frustration or boredom. He doubted many others would understand a person who was not physically there disturbing their rest before a workday. No, it was unlikely John would get any help for the rent anytime soon so he had no business ordering out. At the moment, though, John decided it was worth the expense.

John was camping out. He set himself up in a corner of the room where he could generally see most aspects of the living and dining rooms and was waiting. In some ways it reminded him of Afghanistan. During those times when a case was particularly touchy and he and the other doctors had taken turns sitting by the patient's bedside waiting for any change, good or bad to their condition. Or there were times, rare times, when he was out in the field with a unit and they had to sit, wait, and watch to see if an area was safe and monitor enemy movements. This was similar. This was John sitting, waiting, watching for another incident to occur, another note to appear, another inexplicable sound to break the silence.

Since receiving that first note, John had come to the conclusion that not only was all of this happening, and he was _not_ losing his mind, but the person on the other end of all of this, Sherlock Holmes, was also obviously aware that is was happening. Not only that, Sherlock was trying to communicate, to figure it out, and solve the puzzle of it all.

Well, John was thankfully more than a little unemployed at the moment and with the last of his relations dead and buried there was little more for him to do than sit and wait for the next note to appear. The problem was he didn't know when that would be. He had been waiting for nearly twelve hours. The last note came in the early afternoon and now it was well on its way to midnight. He should have gone to the shops to restock his small supply of rice, beans, and pasta that had been keeping him alive the past several weeks, but he didn't want to miss the next chance to reply to his unseen flat mate, hence the takeaway.

The incidences had been occurring so often lately, John reasoned it couldn't be much longer before the next one. He'd received four notes all told. The first one came several days before and was followed the next day by a reply to his questions he'd scrawled on the paper in addition to a short printout of a scientific paper detailing string theory and the possibility of other dimensions. Since then they managed to exchange three other messages, having to staple several sheets of paper together as they ran out of room on the first one. There was no telling when the paper would arrive next or where it would appear. Sometimes, the paper John received was clearly not the one he had sent since it lacked John's comment, but contained the questions from Sherlock's previous notes listed out on top. Sherlock must have his flat, or perhaps was it their flat, John was beginning to lose track, covered in notes just waiting to fall through whatever opening occurred.

John placed himself at the table with his back to the stove and facing the living room. He dug into his Chinese food with relish. Eating on a budget, always the same meals out of the small repertoire of dishes he could prepare at home eventually got to wear on a person. The dim sum was heaven simply because it was not rice, beans, or pasta.

John forced himself to save at least half of the meal to eat as leftovers the next day. That didn't leave a lot for either meal and he vaguely thought of weight he had lost between his new diet and the creeping depression. Even his therapist mentioned it, but another thought to his bank account had John packing up the rest of the food and storing it into the almost empty refrigerator.

It was getting late, but John was disinclined to go to bed. Instead, he pushed his red arm chair around so the back was toward the wall and settled down with a cup of tea and his latest medical journal to pass the time as he waited for the next _thing_ to happen.

The violin music alerted John first. It woke him up from an uneasy doze he had fallen into without realizing it. His half-drunk tea was long since cold, clasped loosely in both hands in his lap and listing alarmingly to one side, almost spilling. John set it aside, leaning down to place it on the floor when the wave of wrongness slammed into him.

It was much stronger this time, impossible to ignore and making John dizzy at the sheer disorienting sense of it. He stood up, the put a hand to the wall as the dizziness increased. If it hadn't been for the slow build up of these incidents over the months that John had been living in 221B, he would have thought his tea had been drugged or that he'd taken one too many pain pills for his shoulder than he'd intended.

As it was, John knew this meant something was happening more than the other times he'd witnessed the phenomenon. The violin music screeched to a halt as John assumed Sherlock was assaulted by the same disorientation.

Looking toward the sound's origin by the windows, John's eyes widened as he saw a wavering, like heat waves, before him except it was more. It seemed the space between the two points wavered, not just the air, but John didn't know if that was simply the disorientation assaulting his senses or really some special rift forming before him. He could see a blurred figured through that wavering shimmering space. The distortion made the details impossible to pick out, but John could tell the man on the other side was tall, thin, and dark haired, in a night robe with dark pants and white shirt. The man was also holding a violin and bow by his sides as he stared at John.

"Sherlock?" John called taking a shaky step forward. The closer he got to the wavering space the more disoriented he became until staying on his feet was impossible without assistance. He reached behind him and grabbed the nearest thing he could, a book shelf crammed with books the previous occupants left behind. The floor seemed to be shaking, too. A tremor vibrated the shelves and furniture. It rattled the windows as if a freight train was passing by even though the world outside the flat was quiet and still, not even a strong breeze.

"John?" Sherlock called, shaking his head and putting out a hand to the chair before him. He took a couple stumbling steps forward before swaying badly on his feet.

"It's getting stronger," John said mostly to himself, shaking his own head to try and dispel the effects. When he thought about it, being near something like this could very well be dangerous. John didn't even know what would happen if one of them were to fall through the wavering section of the world. Sure mugs, papers, all sorts of inanimate objects had made it between the worlds without a problem, but that did not mean the same could be said for a living creature.

"And more frequent," Sherlock agreed, one hand to his head and blurred expression grimacing.

They'd barely spoken before the feeling lessened. The space of the disturbance shrank and stabilized as the view to the other 221B began to fade.

"No!" Sherlock cried, taking a step toward the disturbance but it had faded almost to non-existence, disappearing as quickly as it had come. Only a faint outline remained, but John saw him bend down and throw something through the remnants.

John hurried to catch it, grabbing the crumpled paper just as the room settled again. He stared for a moment, checking that the world was back to normal for the time being. Then he looked down at the paper, smoothing it out on the coffee table. He couldn't help but smile at the latest lengthy message in their exchange.

XXXXX

Sherlock very specifically did not acknowledge Mycroft as the older Holmes brother stepped into the room. It had been almost two weeks since Lestrade dragged him away from the flat to entice him with mediocre cases that any idiot with half a brain could solve. He hadn't left the flat since then, even when Lestrade texted him with an admittedly intriguing double homicide, probably an eight if Lestrade wasn't lying about the details.

Still, murders occurred all the time. This phenomena occurring in the flat was something _special_. He'd even learned his lesson from that first time, mistakenly being dressed in his customary suit with shoes on making it easy for Lestrade to drag him out into public. Now, he simply stayed in his pajamas and bathrobe, barefoot and completely un-presentable. The last time the Detective Inspector had visited with the intention of removing Sherlock from 221B to "get fresh air" two days ago, Sherlock was able to simply ignore the demands that Sherlock get dressed and put on his shoes.

If this went on for much longer, Lestrade may very well stop caring about Sherlock's lack of publicly acceptable clothing and drag him out despite the lack of footwear. Sherlock's plan for that eventuality was simply to strip down naked, that would more than likely result in Lestrade's retreat. Mrs. Hudson's constant nagging was more persistent, but easier to deal with in the long run.

In all honesty, Sherlock couldn't understand everyone's obsession with air. Fresh or not there was plenty of it for him in the flat. He also couldn't afford to go out and miss even one of the exchanges now happening every six hours or so. John was clearly also staying in the flat since in every one of the exchanges the reply to Sherlock's message had been quick if not immediate at times. Now there was this recent incident, just last night where they were actually able to see one another, speak face to face. No, there was no possible way Sherlock was leaving now.

Lestrade's inability to budge Sherlock from the flat was almost certainly the cause of Mycroft's appearance today. Sherlock was certain he'd removed any surveillance equipment from his home, but Mycroft was constantly replacing them so it was not out of the realm of possibility that one could have been replaced. This also begged the question if the phenomena that were occurring in 221B would even appear on camera and if so, to what extent?

That would be Sherlock's next step in studying the disturbances, just as soon as he got rid of Mycroft.

"Go away, Mycroft," Sherlock said after several minutes of silence followed his brother's entrance. Sherlock refused to look up from his work but could feel his brother's stare all the same. The problem with dealing with Mycroft in this situation rather than Lestrade was Mycroft would have no compunction against ordering his lackeys in to physically remove Sherlock from the apartment, properly clothed or not.

"Keeping busy, Brother?" Mycroft said in the mild tone that spoke volumes in the same way that a blue hole could appear placid on the surface but hid a depth that led through underwater caverns and mazes.

"What I do with my time is none of your business," Sherlock snapped, still refusing to look up. Maybe if he didn't look at the infuriating man, Mycroft would go away.

From the corner of his eye, though, Sherlock could see Mycroft taking careful stock of the living room, with its colored markers indicating hot spots and blanket of paper packets waiting for the next rift in the lining between worlds to fall through and deliver to John. Mycroft bent down and plucked up one of these packets, eyebrow lifting as he read the incomplete conversation typed out on the page.

"You do realize John Watson never left Afghanistan?" Mycroft dropped the paper back to its place before moving to the table. "What exactly are you attempting to accomplish?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw. Though, it was satisfying to know Mycroft had no idea of the odd occurrences at 221B. "I just told you what I do with my time is none of your business."

"Really, brother. This obsession is becoming disconcerting. Why are you so preoccupied with this man? You've never met him, have no connection to him in anyway." The words were mild, bland even, to all others' ears but Sherlock's. He could hear his brother's frustration beating against the cool expression. Few people could aggravate Mycroft Holmes like Sherlock could and he would take every advantage to do exactly that.

"No," Sherlock agreed with ease, thinking of John's astonished face just the night before. "But I would like to meet him someday. John Watson is a fascinating person," Sherlock shrugged, finally looking properly at his brother.

"Considering the circumstances under which he went missing, that is highly unlikely. It is far more probable that he is dead." Mycroft picked up one of the physics texts. He frowned down at the volume and continued in an aside, "Besides, by all accounts the man was as average as they come. Hardly worth the effort."

The pronouncement that John was most likely dead sent a cold shiver through Sherlock, something which would be interesting enough in and of itself if it wasn't for the disturbing thought of John being dead.

Sherlock read the initial report declaring John's status as missing in action during his early research. There were not many details. Mycroft most likely had a more thorough detailing of the incident, but what Sherlock had seen was enough to convince him that the situation was dire. John, the John from his world, had been out with a patrol, an unusual activity for a surgeon but considering the manning shortage a necessary one at times if a qualified medic was not available. According to accounts from his teammates, they were ambushed. John and a portion of their group were cut off from the others for several hours. John was working on one of the team members as they came under sniper fire immediately before their position was overrun. When he was last seen, the RAMC captain was shot through the left shoulder and quickly surrounded by enemy insurgents. John had been alive, but the shoulder injury was serious according to those who saw it, and without proper medical care it was unlikely he would survive long in enemy hands.

Trying to push away the nausea that assault him at the thought of John bleeding out in the sand somewhere, Sherlock rose to his feet with the full intention to throw Mycroft out. However, when he got to his feet and staggered in disorientation he realized the nausea wasn't from envisioning John Watson's death but from the phenomenon happening again. It would be better if Mycroft wasn't here to see this, but there was no way to stop that now. Mycroft was already looking around in confusion as the sound of some daytime talk show filled the room.

Many of the occurrences had grown in strength on average and now happened so quickly, Sherlock knew he likely only had a few moments to try and contact John before it faded. "John?" Sherlock called, bracing himself on the table and casting around for any visible signs where the thin area between the two worlds was located.

"Sherlock, what-" Mycroft leaned on his umbrella for support. The room shuddered, shaking the windows much the same way it had last night, only this time it was less violent.

Sherlock ignored the half asked question and instead pushed toward the TV. If crap TV was on, then John was probably watching it on the sofa or in his red chair. "John! Are you there?"

"I'm here," John's voice came back, fading in and out like the sound was being carried on an unsteady breeze. "I've got the message. These things are happening more frequently and stronger like we said last night. What do you think will happen if they continue?"

John's question died away till Sherlock could barely hear the final words. There seemed to be something said afterwards, but it was too faint to even hope to make out, if it really was even there and not Sherlock's imagination. The disorientation faded away, too, along with the sound of the talk show. Sherlock stayed still, straining for any follow up incident. These things seemed to be like earthquakes, there would be a major event, and then the following ones would be less powerful, losing then gaining in potency until another even larger event happened. This incident was not as strong as the last, but certainly stronger than any of the others a week ago.

Sherlock immediately began cleaning up the sheets of paper, pointedly ignoring Mycroft's impression of a gaping fish. He'd gather half the messages in his hands by the time Mycroft manage to speak a word.

"What was that?" Mycroft managed to finish the question from moments ago.

Sherlock shrugged, determined to be difficult and scowling down at the papers. Now that Mycroft had seen the phenomenon he would demand to be involved. "It was nothing," Sherlock said anyway. He wasn't going to hand a puzzle like this over to his controlling brother without a fight. "This is my flat and what goes on here is my business and my business alone. Now leave."

A decent glaring match followed that statement. Sherlock could see the gears turning through Mycroft's head, whirling, thinking, piecing things together. Mycroft broke contact first, glancing to the TV, the messages in Sherlock's hands, and then to the table with its books on advanced and quantum physics. His lips pursed for the briefest second and then the expression left his face and he was calm once more. "I'll be back brother and when I return I expect a full explanation or I may just remove you and Mrs. Hudson from the premises until it can be determined safe to inhabit."

"You wouldn't dare," Sherlock growled, knowing that yes, Mycroft would dare. He wouldn't just dare, he would do it, having his men pack Sherlock's bags and dragging him out into the street if necessary.

Sherlock glanced down at the bundle of papers in his hand. Then, there was what John had begun to ask. It was true, if the incidents continued on their current trend eventually there would be no rest between them. What would happen then? Either way, whichever came first Mycroft or the strange machinations of the rift, he didn't have much time to figure out was going on, that was certain.

 **TBC…**

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	7. Structural Integrity

**Getting close to the end. Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and followed this story!**

 **I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Chapter 7: Structural Integrity**

John examined the large crack that had appeared in the wall, Mrs. Turner fretting behind him.

"I just don't know what could have shaken the house so badly," Mrs. Turner said, wringing her hands. "If it was an earthquake they would have reported it on the news. And no one else on the street has felt any sort of tremors."

John shook his head, feeling a little bad for misleading his landlady, but unsure how to even attempt explaining the truth. "I really don't know what to say. I will tell you that it does seem to be the same crack that's formed in the living room of 221B. It seems to travel diagonally down the wall, maybe the whole length of the building." John shifted the torchlight around, trying to see in it from another angle. The problem was he was a doctor, not a carpenter. He didn't know the first thing about building or repairing a house. He'd had a certain amount of demolitions training in the army, a _very_ small amount, but that didn't make him and expert in destruction either. "Nope, I can't tell if it's structurally damaging or not. We're going to have to call an expert."

"Oh," Mrs. Turner held the ladder while John turned off his torch and climbed down. "Well thank you, John, for taking a look at least. I'll just have to phone someone to come check, I guess."

"If you're worrying about the structure, perhaps you should go stay with your sister for the time being until you get the professional to take a look. I can stay and watch after the building for you," John offered.

John wouldn't mind if Mrs. Turner left for a few days or even a week or two. The incidents with the other 221B were becoming more violent as demonstrated by the newly formed crack on the wall and the toppled furniture in John's flat. Mrs. Turner even felt the last major incident which caused the crack. She hadn't noticed any disorientation, or the wrongness that John experienced being directly at the epicenter, but she definitely noticed the shaking.

Using the system of notes they had set up, John asked Sherlock if there had been any structural damage done to Sherlock's 221B. There hadn't been. Which meant either the shaking was stronger on this side of the rift, or, more likely, the structural integrity of John's 221 Baker Street was less trustworthy. Either way, John would feel better about the entire situation if his elderly landlady were out of harm's way.

Seeing her hesitate, John gave his most charming smile. "I think it would be for the best. We could pack up the fragile things in your flat just to make sure nothing falls and breaks while you're away if the tremors come again. I'll make sure nothing too bad happens to the building and you can check up on it whenever you like. At least you won't have to worry about being shaken out of your bed in the dead of night."

"But will you really be alright here alone? That bookcase almost fell on you. What if something came down on you and you were trapped?" Mrs. Turner took the torch and followed while John folded up the ladder and carried it to a side room in 221C and the temporary storage filling the basement flat.

"I'll be fine, Mrs. Turner," John laughed. It was sweet how she fretted over him, it reminded him of his grandmother. "I've survived war zones, I don't think a few shaking walls are going to hurt me." Actually, if the incidents got much worse between the disorientation and the shaking, it could very well become dangerous. John would just have to make sure he stayed away from the large pieces of furniture. He'd barely been able to move out of the way of the bookcase as it toppled over in the latest incident.

Toppling furniture aside, if the shaking got stronger and if the structure of the building was already compromised, part of the building could very well collapse and that could kill him just as easily as an insurgent bullet. John didn't mind though. The phenomenon had him feeling more alive than he had been in months. Even now, his psychosomatic limp was practically gone since the incident from earlier in the day. The pain would come back. It always did, but that initial shot of adrenaline when the world was shaking and wrong seemed to do wonders for his leg. "The fright, won't do any favors for your heart though, or your bad knee. I'll look after the place while you're away."

"Alright," Mrs. Turner agreed, locking 221C. "I've been meaning to visit my sister anyway. I may as well do it now. I'll call someone to check the crack and everything, pack, then leave in the morning."

John nodded, relieved. "Let me know when you want some help putting away anything fragile, my evening is free for the taking."

"I knew you would be a good neighbor," Mrs. Turner smiled, sending him back up the stairs with a pat to the arm. "Give me ten minutes to make the call then come down when you can." She disappeared back into 221A, still looking worried, but no longer fretting.

John limped back into his own flat careful not to disturb the messages lying around. They were a nuisance and entirely Sherlock's idea, but John had to admit it did increase the chances for a message getting through with every incident, even the mildest ones. They still hadn't managed to discover the exact cause of the phenomena. John didn't really even have a name for what was happening. All he really knew was it was happening several times a day and each time it grew more intense, they were starting to last longer, as well. The sooner he could get Mrs. Turner out of the building to stay with her sister the better.

John was just filling the kettle for a quick cup of tea while Mrs. Turner made her call when he recognized the off-kilter feeling of wrongness creeping up his spine. Dropping the kettle in the sink, John ran for the door. If the pattern held, he only had a few moments before the shaking began and a moment after that before very air wavered and tore. His legs didn't bother him at all as he pounded down the stairs and called for his landlady, drawing Mrs. Turner out of her flat.

"John! What's wrong?" she asked, hand on the railing before pulling back with a gasp as the hand rail started to shake.

"It's happening again, Mrs. Turner!" John said, stopping halfway down the stairs when he saw her. "You should get out of the building, go across the street to Mrs. Hudson's house." He turned back up the stairs.

"But, John," Mrs. Turner called, grabbing hold of the rail again. The sound of rattling china and furniture grew stronger with each passing moment. "What about you?"

"Don't worry about me!" John called down already on the landing. He could feel the stairs shaking beneath his feet. This was definitely the strongest one yet. "Just need to take care of something I'll be right down!" He watched as she hesitated, then nodded and hurried out the door.

John bounded up the last few steps into 221B. The floor heaved beneath him. Simply entering the room the disorientation washed over him with force. John staggered. He caught himself on the red chair as he searched for the wavering space he knew was there somewhere. Books toppled off the shelves and several dishes fell and shattered on the kitchen floor. The kitchen chairs rattling across the floor almost drowned out all other sounds and John barely heard his name being yelled from across the room.

"John!" Sherlock called, pulling John's attention the windows.

There, perhaps a meter away, was Sherlock. He must have been practicing his violin again. The bow was still clutched in his hand even though he no longer had the violin. John could see him more clearly than ever before, the waving tearing space between them stretching wide and thin enough to resemble a large window. It ran almost completely across the living room from one wall to the other.

"Sherlock!" John replied. He staggered forward a few steps before the heaving floor forced him to stop again. "This is the strongest it's ever been for my side. Is it the same for you?"

Sherlock looked like he was struggling to remain on his feet. Much of the room was out of view from John's perspective. The windows looked cracked in several places, but John couldn't tell if those were his windows or Sherlock's. The music stand on the other side toppled over and spilled music across the floor and through the portal into John's flat. An animal's head came crashing down followed shortly by a bookcase falling over in a clatter.

"I think the answer to that is obvious!" Sherlock yelled as he dodged out of the way of the shelf.

Something dropped on John's head, cracking into multiple pieces and sending a shock of pain though him. He shook his head and the world spun around him, tilting in crazy angles as the disorientation increase. Minor concussion, at least, John thought vaguely as he clutched the chair attempting to stay upright. Dust showered down on him. He looked up ears ringing and head pounding from the blow and found a chunks of the ceiling falling around him as new cracks splintered along the ceiling. A thunderous ripping noise echoed from the walls as something inside them tore loose. John cursed as the crack he'd been inspecting not half an hour ago split farther, running up the side of the wall like lightning traveling heavenward.

John cursed again as the windows shattered and still the shaking only increased knocking him to the ground as keeping any sense of balance became impossible. The reality of his situation hit him as hard as that moment when he'd been shot. This room was going to collapse, and it was going to take him with it.

 **TBC…**

 **Love it? Hate it? Have ideas to improve it? Let me know what you think in a review!**


	8. Breach

**Thanks for all the great reviews! There'll be one more installment after this.**

 **Chapter 8: Breach**

Sherlock stared in amazement. Seeing the world waver and grow thin was just as fascinating as the first time he witnessed it. The veil between worlds grew so thin it seemed nonexistent. The stronger the room shook, the more Sherlock's bones vibrated, head spun, and his skin crawled with the wrongness of it all, the clearer the other world came into focus. Clearer than he'd ever seen it before when the divide between their two places grew this thin. He hoped the cameras he set up to record the phenomenon worked.

The 221B of the other world was sparse compared to Sherlock's own, still the same furniture but lacking much of the clutter. Comparatively few books sat on the shelves, the kitchen table was devoid of science equipment, the floors clean and clear except for the papers strewn across them in a systematic fashion. Considering the methodical layout of the papers and the lack of any other type of clutter, Sherlock deduced they were the reply to the message Sherlock had sent earlier in the day. The shaking of the other 221B was quickly rendering the cleanliness in the other room nonexistent as the books and papers shifted from their original places.

Looking around, Sherlock saw John was not in the room or the kitchen. There was yelling coming from the stairwell though and a moment later John appeared bounding up the stairs. He reeled upon entering the room, and staggered to a chair. The disorientation seemed to hit John at a greater radius Sherlock determined from previous events, no doubt due to the strength of this particular incident.

"John!" Sherlock called, worried for his almost flat mate.

John turned toward his name and struggled to move closer to the rift. "Sherlock!" he called, "This is the strongest it's ever been on my side. Is it the same for you?"

Sherlock fought to stay on his feet. The windows cracked, barely audible over the rattling through the flat. Around him, books, papers, furniture, and clutter clattered over the floor, smaller objects jostling on to the floor. Beakers from the kitchen table smashed onto the floor. The music stand fell over with a shower of sheet music.

"I think the answer to that is obvious!" Sherlock yelled as he just managed to dodge a book shelf as it toppled over. The cow head shook off the wall and down to the other side of him. Sherlock forced himself closer to the rift. "It seems to be getting exponentially stronger."

Sherlock doubted that John heard him, though. A piece of the ceiling broke away and struck John, shattering against his head. Sherlock's eyes widened as he watched the ceiling in John's world crack and roll. The walls, too, buckled as the plaster split apart. On Sherlock's side the apartment was shaking but the building seemed to be holding up better that in John's world. No doubt, there was a difference in the structural integrity of the two buildings.

A loud crack ripped through the already deafening noise in the flat. At first, Sherlock thought it was something to do with the rift itself, but then he saw the break in the wall. John cursed falling to his knees as the room around him shook even more, reaching a crescendo. Sherlock pushed himself, forcing himself to the very edge of the rift. The other room was coming down around John's ears and Sherlock wasn't willing to risk it collapsing with John inside. He reached out, calling out John's name and pushing his hand through the rift.

There wasn't any resistance to Sherlock arm as it moved through the rift but there was a strange sensation, like he was pushing through a membrane or an energy field made physical. Some part of Sherlock catalogued the sensation away for later examination but the larger part of his focus was on reaching John.

"John!" Sherlock called again, grabbing the man's forearm. When he yelled the name, Sherlock realized it had grown quieter. The shaking had diminished. He looked around to the edges of the rift Sherlock now leaned half his body through and found them closing. The rift would be gone again, but the damage had already been done. The building on the other side was being ripped apart and even if it survived this encounter with the rift it would not survive the next. Either way, Sherlock would lose the closest thing to a friend he'd ever encountered.

So, Sherlock did the only thing he could think of, he tightened his grip on John's arm and pulled. John was already off balance between the shaking in his 221B, the disorientation, and now the likely concussion from the blow. Sherlock pulled leaning back. It only took two good tugs along with a hurried "Move, John!" and John fell through the rift, he landed sprawling on floor besides Sherlock.

They lay there for a long moment as the world shook around them, unable to get up. The, slowly, the shaking died, the disorientation faded, and the rift closed. John and Sherlock stayed panting on the floor staring slack jawed at the point in space where the rift had been. Sherlock came to his senses first. He climbed to his feet and reached out a hand do to help John up as well.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, looking John over from head to foot in fascination. For anyone else, at any other time, John Watson would pass for ordinary, but knowing the context, understanding that this was a man who could have been, from a world that could have been and wasn't, yet now was made it all the more fascinating. Sherlock finally had the chance to verify so many of the deductions he had made from coming in contact with the peripheries of John's life and here was the man himself, able to confirm or deny.

"I think so," John said, hand rubbing the back of his head with a wince. "That section of the ceiling gave me a good lump on the head, and I probably have a mild concussion but otherwise the effects from the rift seem to be fading. You?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, and yet he couldn't seem to keep the delighted smile off his face or take his gaze away from John.

John frowned, walking around the section of the room that the rift had cut in half moments ago. Sherlock noticed the smooth gait, no need for a cane at all and adjusted one of his deductions concerning John to include a psychosomatic limp. John had been injured, Sherlock had managed to come across the pension check as well as mail concerning John's wounded veteran's benefits, but apparently an injury to the leg was not one of the lasting physical injuries.

All at once, Sherlock had to know. He had to know everything about John Watson. The rift was gone. It would be hours before it was back. All observations and experiments Sherlock had conducted before demonstrated that once the phenomenon was over there was no trace of it left, barring any physical objects that had manage to slip through. However, unlike all the other times where Sherlock was left waiting or at the most pondering over some minor artifact left behind by the opening and closing of the rift, now Sherlock had John and Sherlock found that was more than enough.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked, starting out with the basics.

"Hm?" John asked, looking up from his place inspecting the wall where one of the larger cracks in his world had been. "Afghanistan," he said and sent his own considering gaze up and down Sherlock then around the room. His eyes lingered on the skull then the lab equipment. "What exactly do you do, Sherlock? In my…world," John shifted as he said the word, frowning but plowed on, "You were some kind of detective."

Sherlock pulled himself straight and tall, a bubbling sense of pride that he couldn't quite explain filling his chest and that urge to smile still refused to leave, making his mouth curl up as he stared. "A consulting detective, the only one in the world, I invented the job."

"The only one in this world," John amended with a smile of his own, but it dropped after a moment, "Or, well…"

"I'm dead in your world, aren't I?" Sherlock didn't need for John to nod to realize the truth.

John hesitated, then took a steadying breath and straightened his shoulders. "What happened to me in this one?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, not wanting to say, but telling John anyway. "You're listed as MIA, but all the reports indicate KIA is more likely."

John flinched, a large part of the movement going through his left shoulder. _Ah_ , Sherlock thought filing it away with his deductions of the nerve damage from observing John's handwriting, _there's the real injury_.

Rubbing his hands together, Sherlock glanced around the room, suddenly nervous a rift would open and send John back to where he came from, like all the minor trinkets that appeared over the last months. The logical step, then, was to get John out of the flat and away from the focal point of the rift. If a rift did appear, the monitoring equipment Sherlock had set up would record it. "Hungry?"

"Starved," John said, patting down his pockets and pulling out his wallet. "Well, at least I had this with me," he muttered, but grimaced when he looked inside. "I'm afraid you'll have to buy."

"Nonsense, John. I know a Chinese place down the street, they never make me pay." Sherlock hurried into his bedroom to quickly change out of his pajamas. He could hear John examining the living room, waiting patiently for Sherlock to make himself presentable. The quiet footsteps had a slight hitch in them now. The limp was returning. Sherlock confirmed the psychosomatic deduction and added one more part to it. When the danger of the rift was occurring and immediately after John's limp had been nonexistent, now that the situation had calmed the limp was making a slow comeback. Hence, adrenaline made the limp go away.

Sherlock didn't know when he had made the decision, perhaps his subconscious had been thinking about it all along, when he first saw John Watson through the rift. He did, however, know when he made his final decision. Coming out of the bed room in a favorite suit, he found John standing over one of Sherlock's experiments. John pointed and asked "Are those human toenails in acid?" without any of the customary derision Sherlock encountered for his experiments. That was the moment Sherlock knew. He was not under any circumstances sending John Watson back through the rift. No, John Watson was here to stay, especially if Sherlock Holmes had anything to say about it.

 **TBC...**

 **Please let me know what you think, particularly if you have ways to make my writing better. Leave a review!**


	9. Back to the World

**Time flew this week and I hadn't realized how much had passed since my last chapter. Here's the conclusion, though. Thanks for all the reviews and everything else. I enjoy them all.**

 **I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Chapter 9: Back to the World**

Mycroft was furious. First, the realization that his brother had been tampering with something as dangerous as a tear in the barrier between two separate dimensions had sent the older Holmes into a big-brother lecture worthy of any he'd given to Sherlock before, including those delivered during Sherlock's drug abuse days. Then, when Mycroft discovered Sherlock had actually brought someone over from the other dimension he very nearly lost his temper.

Personally, Sherlock felt Mycroft's reaction was just one more reason why John should stay.

Mycroft arrived that night, not half an hour after John and Sherlock returned to 221B. "What have you done?" Mycroft asked without preamble. He sent a calculating glare over a John before returning his attention to Sherlock.

"I'm not sure what you mean, brother," Sherlock said, deliberately calm as he scooped up his violin bow and ran rosin over the hair.

"Um… should I leave?" John asked. He stood by one of the bookshelves, scanning the titles before Mycroft swept into the room.

"No," Sherlock said even as Mycroft answered with a hissing "Yes."

John looked between the two, eyebrows raised. "I'll just pop down and introduce myself to the landlady you mentioned, Mrs. Hudson, if she's still awake." John let his gaze rest of Sherlock a moment. "She'd probably appreciate knowing who's staying under her roof."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "If you must, but I told you she wouldn't mind."

"All the same," John said, "If she's not available, I'll be up in the second room, upstairs. Besides, best not to get in the middle of sibling squabbles," and he was out the door, closing it behind him before either Holmes brother could bat an eye.

Glaring at the door then back to Sherlock, Mycroft dropped a series of CCTV photographs in Sherlock's lap. They were black and white stills of Sherlock and John as they went about their business during the evening. After an early dinner, Sherlock took John to St. Bart's to see the latest experiments he was conducting then there were other errands he had to run, getting milk, collecting samples, speaking with his homeless network. All and all, by the time they returned to 221B it would be nearly an hour after the rift between the two worlds opened and closed, meaning John would simply have to stay the night. Sherlock was quite sure the doctor knew what he was up to, but John never said a word and showed no sign of being bothered about not returning to his home world, so Sherlock didn't bother about it, either.

Sherlock shrugged. Really, playing this game with his brother never got old, not since they were children. "You wanted me to get out of the apartment, have sent Lestrade multiple times to do precisely that. I don't see why you're so upset now that I finally take your advice."

"That is John Watson," Mycroft seethed. "A man whom, according to his file, should be missing in action in the Afghanistan desert yet now is most likely entertaining tea with your landlady."

"So rewrite his file to say he was found," Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, "Your connections must be good for _something_." He picked up his violin and ran through a few scales. It was too late for violin playing according to Mrs. Hudson's constant nagging, but she was distracted with John at the moment. John certainly wouldn't mind. The man had been listening to Sherlock play his violin at all hours of the night for the past several months. A few songs wouldn't bother him.

Mycroft stepped close, towering over where Sherlock sat in his chair. When he spoke his voice was tight and controlled. Sherlock hadn't managed to provoke his older brother to yell since they were eight years old, but that didn't mean he'd stopped trying. "You cannot simply play with the laws of reality this way." Myrcoft thrust a file under Sherlock's nose, forcing him to stop playing if only to take the manila folder and put it aside. "You have no way of knowing the ramifications of pulling someone out of another dimension into our own. Put. Him. Back."

Curiosity getting the better of Sherlock as he lifted the front side of the folder and peeked at its contents. It appeared to be a series of scientific measurements concerning 221B, most likely from the latest event. "Unfortunately," Sherlock said, eyes sweeping over the top sheet. "We missed the latest window of opportunity. According my calculations the next chance will be tomorrow morning some time. He'll have to stay the night. It's only logical, we have been flat mates for the past several months."

"Stop being a child, Sherlock," Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the ground, glare warring with the customary bland expression he usually wore. He turned and swept toward the door. "You can't keep him. I expect him to be in his own world by tomorrow morning.

That first encounter set the tone for all others to follow. Sherlock and Mycroft had several discussions concerning John Watson and why after almost a week he was still sleeping in the upstairs room at 221B. Generally, all conversations revolved around more eloquent versions of Mycroft insisting "He's not yours, you can't keep him," and Sherlock replying, "Yes I can, and yes I will."

No matter how strongly Mycroft insisted, though, Sherlock and John always managed to be away from 221B when the phenomenon was supposed to occur. One evening they didn't manage to avoid it, the heavy disorienting sense that something was wrong hitting both of them as they sat down to some take away from Angelo's. However, Sherlock was delighted to note that the incident was weaker than it had been for weeks.

"Do you think it's passing?" John asked, placing some alfredo chicken onto Sherlock's plate without asking him. "That was definitely weaker than it's been in a while. Maybe it hit its high point and now it'll fade away."

"That is a very good possibility," Sherlock said, eyes studying John and ignoring the pasta. After a long moment he asked, "Would that bother you? If it disappeared and you were trapped here?"

John tilted his head, thinking as he slowly chewed his food. "No," he said finally, after swallowing his mouthful. "The only problem that I could see would be if the me from this world was actually alive. Not that I want myself dead but I wouldn't want to steal my own life away from myself." He frowned, thinking about that sentence, then shook his head with a rueful shrug. "You know what I mean."

Despite the confusing personal pronoun situation, Sherlock did know exactly what John meant. "That's highly unlikely," Sherlock said again, shaking his head.

Another few moments of silence stretched out as John ate his food and Sherlock took a bite or two at John's prompting. John's frown lingered in his expression though and his eyes were turned away into the space between the windows. "What exactly happened to him? You said he was shot in the shoulder."

Sherlock nodded, eyeing John as he spoke. "He went out on patrol with a group, acting as their medic since there wasn't one available at the time. They were ambushed. He as well as several others were cut off during the ensuing battle. The last anyone saw him, he was working on a fellow soldier, giving him treatment when he was shot in the shoulder or chest region."

John's eyes remained fixed on the far distance, far away from their London flat and closer to the sands of the Middle East. "That sounds exactly like what happened to me, except when I was shot one of the men ran out and dragged me back. It was pure luck that he made it, but it did save my life. If he hadn't done that I would have bled out in minutes."

"No one was able to get to this world's John Watson that quickly," Sherlock shook his head. It was disturbing, thinking of John disappearing into the desert, and never coming out, never meeting Sherlock. "What happened to me?" Sherlock finally asked, he wasn't entirely sure he cared to know, but there was some curiosity over what would have happened to him if things had been different.

John grimaced, putting down his fork and wiping his mouth with a paper napkin from the bag. "Drug overdose, you died."

Sherlock nodded, not surprised, really. His last overdose had also been his last time shooting up. If Lestrade had been just a few minutes late checking on him, he very well could have died. It had been enough to put him in rehab again, and stay clean.

Shaking his head, Sherlock banished the thought. Instead, he turned his mind to the necessary process of resurrecting John Watson on paper. "If the trend continues as it is with the rift then it should be almost nonexistent in a few weeks, perhaps a few months. You might not have a choice, but if you're really going to stay…" Here Sherlock glanced sidelong at John, searching out a confirmation.

John just smiled and ducked his head in a single nod. "I have nothing for me back there, not even my sister."

"Then we will need to bring you back from the dead. Don't worry, my overly nosey brother can help us as soon as he comes to realization that there's no sending you back." Looking over to John, Sherlock held up his glass of water John had insisted he take in addition to his food. "Welcome back to the world, Dr. John Watson."

John grinned, clinking his own mug against Sherlock's glass. "It's good to be back."

 **The End**

 **This story owes its existence to the single scene of Mycroft telling Sherlock to put John back where he'd found him. From picturing that scene, the rest of the story eventually followed. Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a review on the way out.**


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